Follow You Into the Dark
by all-uu-need-is-love
Summary: Four years after the island, Roger is now one of many souls imprisoned in St. James Psychiatric Hospital. But when the sadist comes face to face with mentally tortured Lavender Daily, his once routined thoughts are thrown amuck. With the additional pain of overcoming demons from his past, Roger has to recover from the beast and essentially, recover from himself


**Wow. I cannot keep a consistent story going, but this idea has been intriguing me for a while. Few notes:**

**Ages;; **Roger is fifteen.

**Setting;; **London, mid 1940's.

**Based on;;** Book version :D

**Warnings;; **There will be explicit content in this story. In this chapter alone, there is obviously swearing, child abuse (not that graphic), hinting sexual abuse. Also self abuse. So, if any of this offends you, I advise you to click off.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything, never have.

**A/N;; **I love Roger, so I definitely was drawn to the idea of writing an entire story about him. I'm anticipating some kind of weird, perverted, Rogerish romance later on. It'll probably be grim, as far as Rogerish romances usually go.

Also, anything italicized and centered is a flashback. Flashbacks in this chapter are references to when Roger was about seven.

**~ALL REVIEWS/COMMENTS/CRITIQUE APPRECIATED~**

* * *

_"Roger,"_

The breath of the memory thunders through me, quakes my being. My eyes flash open, bright and wary to the dark room I'm bound to. Shadows tremble against the opaque blur of night, and like a tortured child, I pull my duvet up over my head and squeeze my sore eyes shut.

My thoughts are thrums against the trembling silence. Every breath comes as a quiet reminder of life. Every silent beat that my worn heart makes is closer to the last. The thought is morbid. It causes me to smile.

_My mother smiles down at me, her dark eyes ablaze with familiar ardor. Her hand grazes against the flesh of my neck, prickling against the smooth skin there. It is foreign, surreal, especially now that those large dark eyes are starting to water._

"_Roger."_

There's something passive about memories. They fade away like the eroding stone of Castle Rock, but they're always there, jagged and dangerous. They splinter my mind, rack my entire being with a lust for pain, a lust for revenge.

_She gingerly touched the dark bruise that encompassed my eye, her lips falling apart in quiet horror. She breathed quickly - sharper now, and her wide eyes narrowed._

"_I'm so sorry."_

_Tears trickled from her eyes._

As if they don't already fucking know. I'm a prisoner, locked in my own body, already deemed for the classic redemption of Hell. They've tried to save me. They've tried and they've lost. I'm unfit for society. I'm a slave for the devil. I'm Roger Addison Eris.

"_Did Daddy do this?"_

_I nodded slowly. Already, hatred coursed through my veins and inundated my mind, pooling my very soul with blackened hostility. Anger was my savior. I had no other faith, only the spiteful urge of revenge._

_My mother bit down her lip until it turned white and a slick, red substance trickled out and dribbled down her chin. She paid no heed and reached out to touch me. I pulled away._

"_You know what he's been doing! You see him!"_

_My mother looked sadly displeased at my repulsion from her affection._

"_He doesn't mean it." Her voice quivered with anticipated fear. "He just...just..."_

I squeeze my eyes shut and bury my head against the cool fabric of my pillow. Hopefully I can wish it all away. Maybe I'll wake up to the warm feeling of sunlight against my skin and sand beneath my back. One day, I'll be able to escape back to the place where I could hide, where I was feared and loved all at the same time, where power literally pooled from the essence of my palm.

One day.

* * *

"Good morning, Roger."

I have a firm belief that my psychologist, Dr. Diana Woodbury, is nearly as batty as me. She's odd, for starters - almost forty and still not married. She's also always smiling, even thought she knows who I am and what I've done to land my sorry self a grim place at St. James Psychiatric Hospital. I look at her and I see brown curls and bright green eyes - attributes I'd rather forget. She reminds me of someone I must've known once, someone whose memory feels like a ghost trailing my shadow. Distant. Unsure. Dark..

Dr. Woodbury was the one who suggested that I should become a permanent patient for St. James. My parents, already tired of my existence, eagerly agreed. Now that I was off their hands, they were able to frolic without question or responsibility. They never liked me much. Then again, they're not the only ones.

"Roger?"

The mention of my name ignites a flame within me, a flame I hoped had long ago been doused. But, like most things, it is always rekindled, always waiting to combust and consume. Essentially, that's what humans were created for. To consume. Destroy. Control.

I meet her expectant gaze with dark solace. "Yes."

I'll play her game, as if I'm some sort of puppet. I'll let her think that she can help me, change me, just like all the other psychologists believed. Fools. As my father once said, those born with the devil can rarely escape from the devil. It resides within them, feeds off their pleasure and pain, warps their already distorted view on society. Psychologists make little difference. They only empower this beast in wanting to grow and flourish and outdo, outrun, out_wit_...

Averting her scrutinizing gaze, she passes a hand through her coarse brown hair, all the while managing to look stern and secure. _Secure_. She surely knows who I am, what I've done, _why I'm here_, yet she refuses to acknowledge fear. How wonderfully uncanny.

"I understand that it must be difficult for you - adjusting here, I mean."

I raise my eyebrows in mocking surprise. "Difficult? Never." My voice drips with livid sarcasm. Dr. Woodbury obviously is underestimating the beast she's playing with.

"Roger." She speaks to me as if I'm an ill-behaved child. _If only_. "Please. Your cooperation is mandatory. Now tell me, has everything been sufficient in accommodating you? Your comfort is our priority, Roger."

A curt smile falls upon my lips. "Yes, Miss."

Woodbury leans back in her chair, curiously satisfied with my response. I'm polite, just as children of this wretched society are taught to be. She takes a final glance before sifting through the stack of papers upon her desk.

"Now in our previous session, I believe we spoke about your time on the island. You were there for a year - that's a long while, Roger."

"Indeed."

My vagueness obviously unnerves her, untethers her mask of control and collectiveness. Dr. Woodbury's eyes alight at my stoic expression, and with sudden grace and interest, she leans towards me and smiles.

"You killed on that island, didn't you, Roger?"

It's as if she's scratched at a scar that I was so blatantly unaware of. Her blunt accuracy is unsettling, and just like that, my warpaint has been washed away. The beast is back, baring and growling and glaring all the same, angered that such accusations are thrown so casually back and forth. The _nerve_!

She nods in satisfaction, as if causing me to remember my deeds pleasures her. There must a little sadism in all of us, I suppose.

I stare down at my lap, not in shame - no, I'd never be ashamed of what I did - but in flushed exasperation. Manipulation comes easy to me, but for me to play the puppet in her wicked idea of therapy? It is not appealing, nor does it meet any sort of adequacy in appeasing the beast.

I feel her hand on my shoulder, and immediately my skin burns. Human touch has always been foreign to me, as my parents showed affection in the strangest of ways. Dr. Woodbury's touch is gentle yet dominative. She squeezes my shoulder with abrupt finality and smiles.

"Do you regret it, Roger? Do you feel guilty?"

My answer is naturally soft.

"Never."

* * *

_"Daddy?" My father looks at me with drunken apprehension, his eyes burning with such a passionate hatred that I am surely convinced he loathes me._

"_Whaddya want, boy?"_

My roommate, Evan, has group sessions until ten, which leaves the room barren and empty for me to make personal indulgences. Evan - the daft bugger - has a pocketknife that he keeps under his mattress. He thinks that I'm unaware that he has it.

Evan's an idiot. A stupid, clueless idiot, and I hate him.

_I carefully take a step closer to my father and stare at him bashfully. "I was wondering..." "You were wondering what?"_

_He's angry. That much is apparent . When I remain silent, he gives a dark chortle and turns away. "Have you done all your lessons?"_

_My fingers are suddenly trembling, and I can feel a chilling bead of sweat linger upon my neck. _

"_No, Father." I know that my answer is my ultimate damnation. _

I take Evan's knife, which is now encrusted with the fine jewel of hardened blood. He wouldn't know the difference. With a pleasured smile, I grip the knife in my hands. So much power, so much freedom, so much...

Pain.

_My father's eyes look red in the dim moonlight._

"_And why the fuck haven't you?"_

_My mother laughs from somewhere in the distance. It's eerie and faraway, interminable against the cold look of my father. He leers towards me, and I stumble back._

_ "I was...I was..."_

"_That's all you're good for." His footfalls are slow, as if he's attempting to suffocate me with anticipation. "Fucking things up. You were never wanted anyway. You were the little mistake that grew. The bloody bane of my existence." Trepidation quivered throughout me, and with certain fear, I tried to crawl away. My father chuckled - hearty and dark - before he lazily knelt down on the floor beside me and reached out._

The sleeve of my shirt had already been discarded of. Stupid thing, always a bother anyway. Now, the exposed skin of my arm glistened with sweat and raised pink lines - beautiful reminders of my power, my glory, my pain.

_I screamed the minute my father's hand made contact with the collar of my shirt. He was grunting in the pleasure of it all, the pure joy of watching me squirm and scream. With a perverted smile, he brought his fist down upon my jaw. It gave way to a sickening crack, and suddenly, warm tears rolled down the entity of my cheeks, staining the bruised skin in salty liquid._

_My father removed his belt._

The flesh was vulnerable, helpless, and when I brought the knife down upon it, the warm blood only elicited a quiet groan. I had almost forgotten how good the pain felt.

_He laughed as the swift whip of his belt left me dizzy and mangled. My shirt was shredded. He was brutish in his torturous methods, all the while spitting upon my bloody back._

"_Never wanted you."_

The blood drizzled down upon my skin, pale from days deprived of sunlight. There was a time when my flesh glowed with a golden aura, when my coarse black hair acted as a shadow against the sensitive dark irises of my eyes. But that time had gone and past, and now I was left alone in a room with a knife and the beautiful sensation of blood caressing my flesh.

_I crumpled down on the floor, heaving with sobs. Blood painted my flesh with claw like engravings, and my ears were tortured by the merciless bellows of laughter from my father._

"_Useless."_

_He kicked me in the side. I succumbed to the force with pathetic compliance, and then he was pressed up against me with that perpetual gaze of hatred._

"_You're not a good boy." I sucked in my breath and squeezed my eyes shut. He chuckled odiously and grazed his lips upon my ear._

"_You know what happens to boys who misbehave?"_

_He didn't wait for my response to continue in an act too evil for any seven-year-old boy._

The pain was solace to my ears, and with a wonderful melody, my heart thrummed evenly against my chest. _Satisfied at last_. The beast within had been fed, nurtured, _rested_, all with the callous blade of Evan's knife. I gazed down at my wound and grinned.

_I was a dirty linen to him, something to be used and disposed of at his penetrating will._

Nothing could compare to the beauty of blood.

_Nothing could compare to the agony of blood_.

I hoped the beauty of it would never fade away.

_I hoped the agony of it would vanish and never return._

Ever.

_Ever_.


End file.
